


A Life

by the_authors_exploits



Series: Pack Family [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: (i love him), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Gen, Kyle is such a fucking dad it's disgusting, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, Slow Burn, abuse is mentioned for a moment im sorry, artwork included, look how far we've come~~, this was supposed to be 4000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes jobs where he can, and finds a family</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destielydia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=destielydia).



> [Destielydia](http://destielydia.tumblr.com/) and I cant stop talking about Frankie...and then it turned into shipping him with Sam...here we are! If you've read my other fic, he was mentioned in there but we expanded upon Frankie and the gang and we changed their ages around
> 
> The art is Lidia's, she's amazing!

   

\|/

There’s a familiar head of brown spikey hair bent over the desk, pen tapping against the papers; Frankie smirks and trots forward on silent feet. His sneakers surprisingly don’t squeak against the warehouse’s concrete floor, years of practice making it easy to sneak up on the other guy; he hurries forward and slaps the kid on the shoulders.

“Sammy boy!” He barks.

Sam jolts, cursing. “Fuck, Frankie!”

The redhead grins; Sam is a few inches shorter than him and he likes the way Sam has to tip his head back to glare at him. “How’s it going?”

Sam is still glaring, and Frankie finds it endearing; he leans against the table and glances over the paperwork. It’s general stuff really, marking the amount of drugs Kyle’s got on stock, which orders go where, if payments have come in… The stuff Sam’s super good at. “It’s going fine, Frankie; why’d you have t’scare me like that?”

Frankie invades Sam’s personal space to bump shoulders with him; “Didn’t you miss me?”

Sam rolls his eyes and bends back over the table. “No, you were only gone three days.”

“Ohh, so if I was gone four days you would’ve missed me?”

“Nope.” Sam pops the ‘P’.

“Five days?”

“Nah.”

Frankie’s smirk drops away and he folds his arms. “A week?”

“Not a chance.”

They met when Sam was fourteen, Frankie having just turned 20; Frankie remembers it clearly, little snippets that shouldn’t seem important but are. The cigarette smoke clinging to his lungs, the sun streaming in through fogged windows, dancing on flecks of honey in Sam’s eyes, and Sammy laughing at something Kyle had said from across the warehouse; it wasn’t Frankie’s first day, and it wasn’t Sam’s, but somehow they’d never been at the warehouse at the same time. So when Kyle introduced them, and Frankie made a quip about teenagers selling drugs on the street, Sam had shrugged and said something about douchebags being stereotypical in gangs. Frankie’d liked him from then on.

“A month!”

Sam actually pauses to think about it; he shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d miss you.”

Frankie huffs; he shakes his head. “You’re breakin’ my heart, Sammy boy!”

Sam shakes his head and breaks into a grin. “You are back early, though; how’d the drop go?”

“Smoothly.”

Sam squints suspiciously at him. “Oh yeah? Then why are you favoring your side?”

Frankie grins and rubs at the back of his neck. “Ahh, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice; I’m fine though, honest. There was just a little…misunderstanding about the price.”

Sam straightens; “What sort of misunderstanding? Frankie, I swear if you got shot again!”

“No, no!” Frankie held his hands up, placating. “No, there were no guns involved this time; Anika was just a bit touchy and sicced her bodyguards on us. But, seriously, he only got a few good hits in; see?” Frankie waves a hand in front of his face. “I’ve still got my good looks!”

Sam is frowning; Frankie huffs.

“Look, Tyron was with me, and so was Walt; ok? There was hardly any danger.”

“And yet you’ve got some busted ribs.” Sam shakes his head. “You said this wasn’t going to be a dangerous job; Kyle promised it’d be in and out.”

“Yeah, well, that was before we found out Anika is a crazy lady.”

Sam stares at him a moment longer, looking for lies or half-truths; finally, his shoulders sag and he motions to the hem of Frankie’s shirt. “Well, let’s have a look. I doubt you went to go see a doctor?”

As Frankie slips onto the desktop he shakes his head. “Nahh; s’not worth it if I have my own personal medic.”

Sam brushes a hand over his bruises; he shakes his head. “Seems to be you didn’t break anything.” Sam steps away, fiddles with the papers. “You should be fine; maybe ice it when you get home.”

Frankie nods and tugs his shirt back down. “Speaking of, you coming over tonight?”

Sam shakes his head, intent on the paperwork.

“I’ll order pizza?”

“I can’t; Nathan’s grounded at the orphanage. Figured I’d go keep him company.”

“What happened?”

“He apparently got in a fight…”

Frankie shakes his head. “Course he did; so who beat our baby up?”

“I dunno, he just texted me saying he was gonna be alone at the compound save for Sister Murial.”

“Well, when you find out who it was you make sure to let me know.”

“Why?” Sam smirks up at him. “Are you going to beat up a middle schooler?”

Frankie shrugs and Sam punches him in the shoulder. “What? He beat up Nathan! Ohh…Or do you want the honor of telling the kid off?”

Sam shakes his head; “Knowing Nathan, he’s probably already got revenge.”

Frankie proudly puffs his chest out; he was there when Sam taught Nate to throw punches a few years back, something he was very proud of. “So come over after.”

“I dunno, it’ll probably be late by then; I’ve got lots of plans with Nathan.”

“Bring him over.”

Sam just stares at him for a moment, and then he shakes his head. “Really?”

“What, I’ve got a couch!”

“It…you’re serious?” Sam fiddles with the pen in his hand. “I…I shouldn’t, Nathan isn’t allowed out of the orphanage. He’s grounded.”

Frankie frowns. “C’mon, Sammy boy.” He can still try and convince Sam to come over after hanging with his brother. “You practically live at my place already. Where did you stay while I was gone?”

“I only stayed at your place because you wanted me to look after your succulents.”

“Hey, they need watering every now and then.”

Sam shakes his head, a grin slipping through. “Fine; but if I wake you up opening the door at 2 in the morning, you’re not allowed to yell at me.”

“I yelled at you one time,” Frankie held a finger up, excited to spend time with the younger boy. “And that was when you ran into a gun fight!”

“I distinctly remember running after you during that fight.”

Frankie tosses his head. “Nah, I don’t remember that.” He pats Sam on the shoulder. “Alright, well I’ve gotta head over to see Kyle.”

Sam frowns; Frankie hadn’t even seen Kyle yet? Yikes… “I have to finish these papers anyway.”

\|/

The first time Frankie took a bullet for him is something Sam will never forget; it was late at night. Normally Wilson or Jenkins would walk Sam back to the orphanage, but both were absent that day, off doing whatever they did; Sam had stayed late, finishing packing some weapons that were going to be shipped out in a few days, and by the time he was ready to leave the streets were empty and the streetlights were bright.

He had poked his head in Kyle’s office. “I’m gonna head home.”

“Sam!” Kyle was in his mid-thirties then, still attractively young, with medium length black hair and piercing blue eyes. “What are you still doing here? You should’ve gone home hours ago.”

“The weapons weren’t ready yet; Wilson’s been gone all day.”

Kyle slapped a hand against his head. “Oh god… I sent him to a meeting with Nickie across town; fuck, Sam, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought about all this before I sent him. I’ll walk you back.”

“It’s ok.” Sam shrugged. “I can go back to the orphanage alone.”

“Sammy boy, out on the streets?” Francis settled his hands firmly on Sam’s shoulders and pushed his thumbs into the knots in his shoulders. “That doesn’t sound safe.”

Kyle smiled. “Well, why don’t you walk him home then?”

Frankie returned Kyle’s grin. “Whatdya say, Sam?”

“I’m not a kid.”

Frankie frowned. “You’re sixteen though.” Frankie used his massaging hands to tug the teenager away from Kyle’s office, both calling goodbyes and complaints and banter as they went.

“So,” Frankie started as they headed down the road, side by side; Sam hefted his backpack higher, and Frankie had his hands dug deep in his sweatshirt pockets. “How’s Nathan?”

“He’s good.” Sam nodded. “He wants a new book he saw at the library; uh, _The Life and Times of Roman Leaders_.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“Don’t be sarcastic about my little brother’s interests, ok?”

Frankie chuckled, and Sam huffed a laugh. “I’m not, it does sound very interesting; promise!” When Sam punched him in the arm, Frankie flitted out of reach. “I promise!”

They had just passed under a streetlamp when the three men came out of the shadows; at first, Sam didn’t notice them. And then they pointed a gun at him and Frankie’s redhead was suddenly in front of him, an arm out to hold him back.

“Whoa, whoa!” Frankie drawled. “Hey, now, we’re just a couple of kids trying to make our way home, ok? No need to point guns at us.”

They’ve got masks on their faces, stupid random animals, and the monkey faced one stepped forward. “Give us your fucking wallets!”

“Hey, man, we don’t have no money; alright?” Frankie took a step to the side when the two others moved to surround them, as if to block Sam from them too.

Sam saw what was going to happen before it did; monkey face, the ring leader apparently, had tightened his hold on his gun and his trigger finger twitched. He was aiming straight at Sam’s chest; Frankie, too, noticed.

“No, no! Don’t you dare!”

“Give us your money!”

“We don’t have any!”

Sam knew he was lying; Kyle had paid Frankie today, and Sam had a good amount of cash in his backpack put towards that new book Nathan wanted.

“You’re testing my patience, kid. Maybe I’ll shoot your little friend here?”

“You wanna shoot him, motherfucker?” An edge crept its way into his voice and he moved determinedly in front of Sam, hands raised and fully blocking the teenager. “You’ll have to shoot me first.”

“Frankie!” Sam grit out.

The monkey faced man shook his head. “Waste of our time.” And he pulled the trigger.

Sam yelled with the echo of the gunshot, and Frankie jerked; he spluttered and Sam jumped forward as he began to drop to the ground. He didn’t pay attention to the muggers ripping into his backpack, or which way they ran off to once they had what they wanted. His attention was on the bleeding man in his arms.

“Frankie, no no, don’t you do this to me; you can’t…” Sam shifted them into a different position, one where it was easier to hold Frankie close and try to stop the bleeding from his chest wound; the wound that was meant for Sam. “Frankie, please.”

Frankie sucked in a breath, wet and gurgling, and he looked at Sam with wide—dare he say, frightened—blue eyes. “Sammy boy,” he muttered. “S’ok, Sammy boy.”

“Help!” Sam cried. “Help, somebody, help!”

The streets were silent, and Frankie was stilling further with every second; Sam swallowed, fought back tears, and applied more pressure to Frankie’s wound.

“You stay with me, Frankie; stay with me. Don’t you leave me too, you hear, you stay with me!” Sam sucked in a deep breath, and let it loose as loud as possible. “Help! Somebody, help us, please!”

Frankie reached a bloody hand up to grip at Sam’s face, make him look at him. “You listen t’me, Sam; Sam…”

Sam’s breath hitched as he tried to focus.

“You’re…gonna be…fine.”

Sam let out a sob.

When they were brought to the hospital, some good Samaritan from the apartment building across the street had called an ambulance, Sam was left to sit listless in the waiting room. They’d whisked Frankie away, unconscious and bleeding on the gurney, and, after ensuring Sam was fine, the nurses had left him in the waiting room; there were others to tend to, and a kid covered in blood could wait.

Where he sat, blood drying on his clothes, and waited for news; the doors of the hospital whisked open, a gust of air blowing about the room, and Kyle came marching in as if he owned the place. If Sam were more aware, he wouldn’t doubt that Kyle could own the place in a heartbeat.

“Sam!” Kyle called, hurrying across the room in large strides; behind him, Walt followed and Riley wasn’t too far behind. “Sam, god, what happened to you?”

Sam knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Kyle had alerts placed for every time anyone in the gang’s name popped up; in a database at the hospital, or in registration at a jail. If they ever got in trouble, Kyle would pop up and pull them out.

Kyle knelt in front of Sam’s chair, reaching out to rub away the dried blood on his cheek. “Sam? Talk to me?”

“Boss?” Riley asked, her voice wavering the slightest bit.

“Go see what’s going on with Frankie; Walt, you’re on Sam duty.” Kyle nodded to a chair. “If I get pulled away, you do not leave his side, understand?”

Walt nodded, and took the indicated seat.

Sam reached out and gripped Kyle’s shoulder. “Kyle?”

“Who did this, Sam?”

Sam’s lip quivered. “I dunno, they asked for our money and Frankie wouldn’t give it to them; they…they were going to shoot me.”

“Ok, ok, shh.” Kyle snapped his fingers at Walt. “You stay with him, I’m going to look into this.”

Riley came bounding over, a hand hovering near the edge of her jacket as if she wanted to grab her gun. “Boss.”

“Fill me in as we go.”

And then Kyle was gone, and Sam was waiting in silence again—for any sign that they would be ok.

\|/

Frankie orders pizza when he gets home and leaves a few slices in the oven; he drinks a beer, eats four slices of pizza, takes his pain meds, and crashes another hour or so later. He’s happy to be home, in his own apartment, in his own bed, wrapped in his own sheets. There’s a fan clicking on the bedside table, whirling cool air, and his windows are open; a soft breeze carries across the night, through the apartment.

Frankie’s been dozing, in and out, for two hours when he hears a key slot into the door, the lock click, and the door screech open; he lifts his head and sees Sam slip his backpack off his shoulders and to the floor.

“I put some pizza in the oven f’you.”

Sam freezes. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Frankie burrows back into his pillow. “S’ok, Sammy boy; how’s Nate?”

Sam is quietly shuffling around the kitchen by the moonlight, biting into a still warm slice of pizza. “He’s good; he’s got a split lip…”

Frankie jerks up and winces when his ribs are pulled. “The fight was that bad?”

Sam pats crumbs from his hand and makes his way towards the bed; Frankie rolls out of the way and Sam plops down next to him with a huff. “Yeah…”

Frankie sighs. “What d’ya wanna do about it?”

“I wanna know who did it.”

Frankie ruffles the kid’s hair. “We’ll take care of it, Sammy boy; get some sleep.” The drugs are starting to really make Frankie feel heavy, and while he wants to support Sam and Nathan right now he can’t; Sam shifts into a more comfortable position, sighs, and goes still. Frankie grins; yeah, he’s home.

In the morning, Frankie wakes to bacon sizzling in a pan and coffee warm in the pot; he disentangles from the sheets and stretches, gingerly. His ribs are hurting, but he was laying wrong so of course they will be hurting now; he searches for a tube of muscle relaxing cream.

“Sam?”

“Hm?” The kid flips the bacon, and divies out eggs on two plates.

“Where’s the Traumeel?”

Sam glances about the open space. “Did you check the coffee table?”

Frankie eyes the messy table; there are papers and plates and napkins and even a towel piled on the table. “It’s totally going to be there, isn’t it?”

“Want me to look for it? Are you hurting?”

Frankie waves a hand. “No, it’s ok; is that coffee?”

“Yeah; I’ll make you a cup.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Find your Traumeel.”

Frankie finds the tube of ointment beneath the towel, and he massages a good amount into his ribs.

“Traumeel is for muscle pain,” Sam mumbles as he sets a plate and a cup down in front of Frankie.

“I’ve got bruised ribs, right?”

Sam shrugs and settles besides Frankie on the couch. “Could be cracked; either way, I’m not sure Traumeel is gonna help ribs.” He makes a face. “I’m not a medic.”

“Yes you are,” Frankie teases and sips his coffee; it’s perfect, black with two scoops of sugar. “You’re always patching me up.”

Sam glares. “That’s a lie; besides, if you were a little more careful you wouldn’t get hurt as often as you do.”

The bacon is crisp, and the omelet is delicious; they eat in companionable silence, until their plates are scraped clean. Frankie stands and takes Sam’s plate.

“You cooked, I’ll clean.” He fills the sink and goes about scrubbing the pan and utensils. “What’s Kyle got you doing today?”

“Scoping out Manuel’s shipment.”

“A’right, I’ll back you up.”

Sam lifts his head from where it was resting on the armrest; he’s still tired, having gone to bed so late and gotten up early enough to make them breakfast. “No! You’ve got the day off to recuperate.”

“But Manuel,” Frankie pats his hands dry on a towel. “Is going to have guards, which means if he spots you spying he’ll probably punch your nose in.”

“So he won’t see me.”

Frankie frowns, and Sam sticks his tongue out.

“I’ll be fine!”

“Can’t hurt to have back up, Sammy boy.”

\|/

Sam didn’t like Frankie when they first met; to be fair, he didn’t necessarily like anyone. He had been working among these gangs for a few months now, running errands between the city’s trash; messages, delivery dates, treaties of temporary truces. He was privy to them all, all their secrets and weaknesses; if he wanted to, he could tear them down with so much as phone call to the right people.

But Sam wasn’t stupid; these were dangerous people, with dangerous connections far beyond the city and alleyways. And half of them really weren’t that bad anyway; Kyle paid him good money, and Manuel sometimes sent Sam home with an extra Subway sandwich. All things considered, they took good care of Sam; so he wouldn’t betray their trust.

But that didn’t mean he fully trusted them; no, in fact, no one really knew where Sam lived. None of them knew Sam’s background—beyond a street kid looking to make a few extra bucks anyway he could—and no one knew he went home to a packed orphanage, stuffed his money in a hole in the wall, and read to his baby brother before bed.

No one knew he occasionally skipped eating lunch so he wouldn’t have to spend any extra money, putting those dollars towards new clothes or knickknacks of comfort for his brother. No one knew his rap sheet with the police, the break-ins and occasional assault on a foster family who was a little to mean to Nathan or himself.

So, while he knew the gangs could be nice, were trusting and occasionally kind, he wasn’t stupid enough to actually believe that was all they were; they were murderers, drug dealers, black mailers.

Still, when Kyle asked him to come in for a one hundred dollar job, Sam jumped for it; he packed his backpack up, ruffled Nathan’s hair and gave him a kiss goodbye, and left for Kyle’s warehouse. Kyle’d said three days, so Sam told Nathan he’d be back in three days.

At the warehouse, Kyle had walked him around the place; he’d shown him the locks put in place, where files went, the production line, the weapon cabinet.

“What is this job, Kyle?” Sam finally asked; he was used to being told to deliver packages, letters, to scope out meeting places, to help plan travel routes… A tour of the warehouse was weird.

Kyle leaned against the wall and looked at Sam, assessing him. “I’m going on a 3 day trip, and I need someone to keep things running behind the scenes.”

Sam blinked; “Wait, are you putting me in charge?”

Kyle barked a laugh, doubling over and clapping Sam on the shoulder. “God, no, kid!” He waved at a redhead across the way, puffing on a cigarette, and the man started weaving his way over. “Do you know what it takes to run a corporation like this? The most important thing to remember?”

Sam shook his head.

“It takes more than a face to run something like this; there’s paperwork, there’s numbers to keep track of and contracts to keep in order. There’s more than just muscles and good looks.” Kyle turned to greet the redheaded guy. “This is Frankie; he’s going to show you the ropes when I’m gone, look after you. Frankie, this is Sam.”

Frankie glanced him up and down, pulling the cigarette out and blowing smoke. “I didn’t know we were a daycare.”

And, for whatever reason, Sam responded in kind: “Douchebags are typical in gangs, huh?”

Kyle hid a grin behind his hand and Frankie’s gaping mouth slowly split into a grin too. “I like this kid,” he declared, sucking in smoke. “So, Sammy boy, you’re my responsibility while Kyle’s gone?”

Sam’s face soured. “Don’t call me Sammy boy.” No one called him Sammy; well, except Nathan when he was begging for something. “But, uh, yeah; I s’pose so.”

Frankie nodded. “A’right, then; what’s he got you assigned to?”

“Paperwork.”

“Ohh, dangerous!” Frankie teased. “What if you got a papercut?”

Too caught up in assessing each other, they didn’t notice Kyle slipping away.

\|/

Frankie drums a beat on the steering wheel, completely out of time with the music on the radio, and glances in the back seat; next to him, Sam shifts and gnaws on his nail, staring out the window. “Kiddo, where do you wanna go today?”

Nathan, taller than the last time Frankie saw him, strains against his seatbelt to lean between the two front seats. “Museum! Or zoo!”

Sam glances at him. “Stay in your seat, Nathan.”

“It’s my birthday, Sam, you can’t tell me what to do on my birthday!”

Frankie grins at Sam, and shrugs when Sam sends him a sour look. “Hey, he’s got a point.”

“Nathan,” Sam says, and turns back to his window. “If you fly through the windshield when Frankie crashes the car—”

“Hey! I’m a good driver!”

“Then it’s your own fault.”

Nathan does lean back though, and kicks the back of Sam’s seat.

“Hey!” Frankie says, turning full bodily to scold the kid. “This isn’t our car, so we gotta return it to Tyron in the condition we borrowed it in.”

“Watch the fucking road, Frankie!”

His voice goes high pitched and quiet as he turns back to the road, side eyeing his companion. “Watch your fucking language, Sammy boy, we have a twelve year old in the car!”

Nathan rolls his eyes, grinning. “Museum or zoo?”

“Zoo!”

“Museum!”

Nathan sighs, heavily, and smiles when the two devolve into a slap fight. “Watch the fucking road, Frankie!”

Sam turns a horrified look at Nathan, and Frankie laughs loudly and turns the radio up.

\|/

Sam remembered Walt settling a hand on the back of his neck, thumb brushing against the short tuffs of hair there; Sam remembered Riley popping up at one point, sweaty and flushed with adrenaline, handing over a duffle bag. Walt shoved him, not unkindly, into the nearest bathroom with a change of clothes and it had taken Sam several moments to peel the bloodied shirt from his chest.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want out of the dirtied clothing, it was just that he couldn’t bring himself to touch the blood; it was Frankie’s, and Sam was still in too much shock to think this was real.

A new pair of jeans and a thick, long sleeved shirt that obviously didn’t belong to him; a dark blue sweatshirt was in the duffle bag, also not his, and the door opened to him crying, sitting on the toilet seat and sobbing quietly.

From there, everything went back to a blur; people milling around the emergency room, doctors paged over the intercom, nurses pacing back and forth with clipboards clutched to their sides. Sam didn’t see Kyle for the rest of the night, and Riley only stopped by once more to check on everything before disappearing.

She had been sporting a spot of blood on the knee of her jeans, the heal of her boot.

Walt didn’t leave, following his orders to accompany Sam around the hospital until things got sorted; by 6 in the morning, 4 hours after they’d arrived at the hospital, Sam had only gotten an hour and a half of scattered sleep and Walt was still by his side when the doors opened. Kyle came marching in, his clothes different and his hair wet from a shower, and he came straight up to them; he eyed Sam, blinking sleepily against Walt’s shoulder, and addressed Walt.

“Anything?”

The man shook his head. “No; they haven’t said anything. Or,” he dropped his voice conspiratorially. “They won’t tell us anything.”

Kyle nodded, gave Sam an encouraging smile, and turned towards the reception; Sam watched his body language, the stiffness in his shoulders, his hands loose but threatening, the mad glint in his eyes. There was a reason Sam told himself not to trust these people, a reason he told himself to stay away, to keep his distance.

There were not people to be messed with, not people to cross or anger, volatile beings with knives for hands and bullets for words; they would take your finger in retaliation and laugh, they would take your life and sleep easily. They were remorseless, relentless.

Yet Sam had stopped fearing them ages ago; somewhere around the time Anderson didn’t kick him out of the warehouse when he didn’t have anywhere to go, the sisters punishing him for stealing a candy bar from a gas station. Somewhere around the time Kyle assigned Wilson to escort Sam home, when Jenkins drove him around wherever he had to go when it rained—when Frankie grinned, slung an arm around Sam, and promised to help him with the extra paperwork whenever possible.

Sam had stopped fearing these people and was now feeling avenged, with the way Riley proudly sported the blood on her clothing, how Tyron would tell him—after the drama died down—that Kyle had shifted all attention on tracking down the muggers, how a street war would break out for several months over the three bodies discovered scattered around the city.

He shut his eyes, feeling Walt shift in his chair, hearing Kyle across the waiting room subtly threaten information from the medical force, wondering if Frankie would be ok.

\|/

Sam doesn’t want to wake up, but there’s a noise ringing through his ears and his eyes shoot open when he recognizes it’s his phone; he coughs over the phlegm in his throat, rolling with effort to reach the phone.

But there’s a shadow suddenly looming over him and he lets his arm flop uselessly to the mattress; Frankie grabs the cellphone and answers the call, falling back to his place in the bed. “H’lo?” he grumbles, voice still heavy with sleep, and Sam hears someone he doesn’t recognize answer back.

“S’it?” he asks, coughing again; he realizes he’s coughing all over Frankie’s arm, that’s somehow wound up as Sam’s pillow.

“Go back to sleep, Sammy boy,” Frankie consoles and, after taking his arm back, he crawls over Sam’s prone form gently, trying not to jostle the bed too much. “So what’s going on?” he asks into the phone and moves into the bathroom, the only room that has a door in his place, and shuts it quietly.

_“I’m sorry, I’m trying to get a hold of Samuel Morgan?”_

Frankie sighs and sits on the edge of the tub. “He’s unavailable right now.” He makes a mental note to buy more cough medicine when he hears the painful hacks Sam lets loose in the other room. “Can I take a message?”

_“Oh, yes, thank you. This is Doctor Genig’s office, calling to remind him that his younger brother needs his vaccines for the coming school year; we’d be happy to make an appointment if he’d like to call us back and set up a time.”_

Frankie frowns, worrying at his lip when Sam coughs loudly again, sneezing on the end of the fit, and groans. “Uh, can you fit Nathan in today? I can bring him in.”

_“Oh, are you on the family list?”_

“I don’t think so, but I am a friend of them; Francis Baker?”

There’s the noise of a keyboard clacking away, and then a happy breath. _“Oh, yes, you are labeled here as an emergency contact, Mister Baker! We can certainly fit Nathan in today; we have 11 this morning free, and two thirty this afternoon.”_

He recovers from the shock rather quickly; he wasn’t expecting to actually be on the list. “We’ll take…” Frankie pulls the phone away to glance at the time; if he goes this morning, he can grab the medicine and be back before Sam needs another dose. “11, please.”

There’s some more formalities before Frankie hangs up the phone and uses the toilet, washing his hands and splashing cold water on his face; he exits the room and glares at the broken blinds that let in too much sunlight for 9 in the morning. On the bed, Sam snuffles around a stuffed nose.

“S’it?”

“Doctor,” Frankie nearly whispers. “Nathan needs his vaccines for the school year; don’t worry, I got it.” He sets the phone back down on the bedside table, ensuring the volume is lowered considerably, and tugs the blanket up around Sam’s shoulders. “I’ll be back in a few hours; you’ll be alright ‘til then?”

“Don’t need a babysitter, Frankie.”

He chuckles; “I know, Sam; just get some sleep.” Fifteen minutes later, dressed and having ensured Sam has everything he’ll need until Frankie can get back, he kicks his motorcycle to life and revs down the street; the first place he has to stop is the doctor’s office, for a note to present to the orphanage that he’s allowed to take Nathan out, and from there he turns around for the orphanage.

Of course, Sister Anika is suspicious, but Frankie hands over the note and she makes a call to confirm, eyeing him suspiciously; he smiles charmingly at her, hefting his motorcycle helmet in his hands. Finally, she hands up and hands back the note.

“Mister Baker,” she says, all faux politeness. “Let me just go collect Nathan for you.”

He smiles back, and reads the certificates on the wall; most are yellowed, old awards, and some are portraying the talent the staff has. He shakes his head when he reads over a scripture on display in the midst of the certificates.

“Frankie!”

He turns a wide grin on Nathan. “Hey, kiddo!”

Nathan comes running up, holding his arms open for a hug, and Frankie bends his knees to grab the kid; he hefts the boy over his shoulders and laughs with Nathan, both waving goodbye to the disapproving sisters as they head out the door. Nathan laughs and bats at Frankie’s back. “Put me down! Put me down!”

“Nahh.” At the bike on the curb, Frankie does set him down and ruffles his hair. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment to go to; vaccines.”

Nathan pulls a sour face, but still hops on the bike behind Frankie. “How’s Sam? Does he still have a fever?”

“Not the last time I checked.” Frankie hands the kid his helmet. “We gotta pick up medicine on the way home too.”

Nathan nods and, after cinching the helmet, wraps his arms around Frankie; he kicks the motorcycle to life and they race off down the road.

\|/

“Is there a reason,” Frankie began, pulling a lollipop from his mouth. “You’re sleeping here.”

Sam glared up at the redhead, shifting his bundled jacket into a more comfortable position. “I got kicked out.”

Frankie raised a brow. “Yeah? Again?”

Sam turned further into his jacket and willed the other to go the fuck away.

“A’right, come on; up!” He tapped Sam’s arm, gripping his bicep and tugging him up. “You aren’t staying here another night; let’s go.”

It’s not the first time Sam had stayed at the warehouse for the night; he’s been there before, and Frankie’s heard of it all through rumors from the other members around the place and from his own experience of coming in early to Sam napping in some dark forgotten corner. Well, Frankie’d had enough; he wasn’t going to let the poor kid sleep in the dark and cold and uncomfortable warehouse anymore.

Sam groaned in annoyance, but let Frankie pull him to his feet and grab his jacket, dusting it off. “You gonna kick me out too?”

“Nope, you’re coming home with me; let’s go.”

Sam frowned, halfway into fitting the jacket on. “What?”

Frankie’s grin made Sam suspicious. “I know the normal way to go about this is a date first, but it’s a bit late for a restaurant to be open.”

“Shut up,” Sam griped, rubbing at his eyes, and he followed Frankie out to his motorcycle.

They don’t say much of anything, just little mumbles of _“get on”_ and _“ready?”_ , and Sam gripped at Frankie’s belt loops; he moved with the bike, rolling and leaning when Frankie did, and somehow he found himself dozing as they drove down the near vacant, dark streets.

By the time Frankie came to a stop, shutting the motor off and putting the stand down; he glanced over his shoulder at the teenager who was practically beginning to drool on his shoulder. “We’re home, Sammy boy, come on.”

He led his company up a set of creaky stairs to his flat’s front door, slotting the key in the door and turning the lock; he swung the door open and pushed Sam inside the dark apartment. One light flicked on to a kitchen, a living room, and a bed shoved in the alcove in the corner.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” Frankie muttered, slipping around Sam to set his keys on the counter and start shuffling dirty clothes and dishes out of the way. “I’ve got some leftover Chinese food it you’re hungry, and you can take the bed if you want; I sleep on the couch a lot.”

Sam’s hand fluttered about the buttons on his jacket. “No, that’s ok; I sleep where I can, it’s cool.”

“Nahh, guest get the best.” Frankie tossed the leftovers onto the counter. “Cups in here, plates here, utensils in that drawer.” He shrugged. “Make yourself at home.”

Sam eyed the succulents on the counter and then glanced at the bed. “So, is it ok if I just…go to sleep?”

Frankie nodded, shoving noodles in his mouth. “Yeah, sure; I did wake you up. Sorry about that too, my bad, uh… If you’re cold I can get you some more blankets.”

Sam waved a hand and headed for the couch; “I’m fine, really, it’s cool…”

“The bed, Sammy; take the bed.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine, really.”

“Sammy boy.”

At his serious tone, Sam halted and turned to face him.

“Take the bed, please. I’d feel a lot better, ok?”

It was the sincerity in Frankie’s eyes that found Sam curled on the, surprisingly soft, mattress, falling into a deep sleep almost immediately; the following morning, Frankie told him to drop by any time he’d been kicked out and it was the sincerity that had Sam knocking on his door the following month.

\|/

 

Frankie turns the knob and ushers Nathan in, glancing down the hall at Gordie who yells obscenities at his girlfriend on the other side of the door; he swears, if he has to call the cops on that abusive shithead one more time Gordie’ll be waking up without hands. Frankie turns a smile on Nathan and points him towards the bed.

“Sam should still be sleeping; you can go tell him we brought lunch if you want.” Frankie bats Nathan’s hand away from the bandaid on his arm. “And stop picking at that.”

“I don’t wanna wake him.” Nathan whispers, jumping a bit when Gordie makes the walls shake.

Frankie pulls his phone out and sets the bags on the counter, dialing the cops. “He’s due for another dose of medication, so why don’t we see if he wants something to eat too?”

Nathan shrugs and tiptoes over to the bed where Sam is sprawled out; he sets his hands on the side of the mattress and bounces lightly. “Sam? Sam, time to wake up…”

While Frankie chats with the cops, he begins unboxing the cough syrup and reading the directions, eyeing the brothers in the corner.

Sam sucks in a surprised breath and coughs when it catches on the phlegm in his throat; he glances about the room quickly, settling a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, and when the coughing dies down he smiles. “Hey, baby bro, how’s it going?”

“Good; I got my vaccines, and Frankie brought home some burgers and a salad. Are you hungry?”

Sam muscles his way into a sitting position and Nathan steps aside to let him stand. “Yeah, I could go for a salad.”

“It’s apartment 342—oh,” Frankie fits a hand over the phone so the operator doesn’t hear. “I also picked up a soup; I can heat it up for you if you’d prefer that, Sammy boy. Sorry, ma’am, no this isn’t the first time I’ve had to call about him. Yeah…”

Nathan starts pawing through the food bags, pulling out his burger and fries and going to sit in the living room. “Want me to grab you the salad, Sam?”

Sam, who’s yet to move from the bed, glances at Nathan and smiles. “Nah, I’m good, buddy; just trying to wake up.”

Frankie sets his phone down and measures out some medicine, walking over to Sam and holding it out. “Here, for your cough; I’ve got some fever reducers too if your fever comes back. And if you get nauseous, I can run out and grab some Gatorade.”

Sam takes the small cup and smiles his thanks, downing the sticky substance in one go; he scrunches his nose. “Ugh, that’s gross!”

“You want soup or salad? There’s a burger for you if you want something a little heavier.”

“Soup?” Sam asks, hopeful, and Frankie smiles.

Frankie bustles casually around the kitchen, going about setting the cup of soup on the stove; he sticks his head out of the apartment when he hears the cops arrive, watches them handcuff Gordie and speak quietly to a crying Delilah. He gives her an encouraging smile and documents her split lip and black eye; he ducks back into his apartment and pours the soup in a bowl, puts a spoon in it, and carries it over to Sam.

“Careful, it’s still pretty warm; Nathan,” he turns to the kid on the couch. “You good? You need anything?”

Mouth full of burger, the kid gives a thumbs up and Frankie returns it, nodding and stepping back into the kitchen; he stands at the counter, chewing thoughtfully on his own meal, and watches Sam and Nathan.

His apartment may be small, but it’ll never be overcrowded. Not with his family taking up the space.

\|/

Kyle sent Walt home, taking a knee in front of Sam and rubbing his arm, attempting at comfort. “They brought Frankie to his room a few hours ago.”

Sam startled, straightening quickly. “Is he ok, is he…Is he ok? Kyle?”

“Hey, he’s not out of the woods yet, but the surgery went well and he’s resting; I’m a little pissed they didn’t inform us, but I pulled a few strings and you’re allowed in to see him.”

Sam buried his face in his hands, relieved and frustrated. “Why didn’t they tell us?”

Kyle smiled, softly at Sam, but beneath the smile was a shark. “I’ll sort it out; come on, let’s get you in to see him.”

Kyle escorted him through the hospital hallways, past doctors that he smiled threateningly at, a protective hand clamped on Sam’s shoulder; they arrived at Frankie’s room and Kyle opened the door quietly, coaxing Sam in. “I’ll be outside if you need anything, alright?”

Sam nodded, still shaken and unable to form full words with Frankie so close; on the hospital bed, Frankie was hooked up to tubes and monitors, breathing gently and deeply, limp and heavy. Sam inched closer, glancing around for information, and sunk into the seat pulled close to the bed; from there, he watched Frankie sleep, drugs coursing through the man’s system, and eventually found himself falling into a deep sleep.

With his head pillowed on his arms, resting at Frankie’s hip, Sam slept finally—as deeply as Frankie slept.

\|/

By the time Frankie turns 26, Sam has unofficially become a member of Kyle’s gang. He still does the occasional odd job for the other bosses, fetching something Nickie left at home or giving a letter to Anderson; yet everyone in the city’s underworld knows that Sam belongs to the Black Wolves.

The day Frankie turns 26 is nothing special; he has no plans, hasn’t even announced it. There’s a large shipment going out today, and work takes precedence over celebrations right now. Tensions have been climbing high for a while, multiple members going missing only to show up dead or horrifically injured a few days later, shipments being hit, stolen, completely missing; the worst part, is no one has fessed up to the attacks. Frankie lights a cigarette to steel his nerves and leans against a supportive beam in the middle of the warehouse.

Across the room, Sam hands off a crate full of weapons to Tyron, turning to finish stuffing files and papers in a box; the Wolves are jumping ship. If what little trust and honor the gangs have between each other is slowly crumbling, then they have to move to secure their safety; Frankie sucks in smoke, holds it, slowly blows it out his nose. Riley pinches Sam in the side as she passes, and he jerks, laughing quietly, and Frankie smirks.

Sam looks up from the paper in his hands, smile softening at Frankie, and he gives a little wave before tucking the files in the box and hefting it high; he’s still smiling, muscles straining in his arms, as he turns away to carry the box out and Frankie freezes, cigarette half way to his mouth.

Fuck, he thinks; fuck…

Sam moves fluidly through the throng of people, hips twisting to skirt around tables and groups, muscles adjusting as he moves, and his smile—soft, sweet, so young and hopeful—catches Frankie’s eye.

Kyle, in passing, grins widely at Frankie’s wide eyed gaze and claps him on the shoulder. “Figure it out, Francis?”

Frankie loves Sam.

 

\|/

It wasn’t always Frankie who got injured; sometimes, Sam got caught in the crossfire and the city barely survived the backlash. He remembered it, still sometimes dreams of what could have happened, what might’ve—the panic if Sam had gone missing, the frantic search, discovering his bloodied body at the end of a pier, behind a dumpster, broken and cold.

However, that’s not what happened; instead, it’s a rather calm affair. Sam walked into the warehouse, mumbling hi to a few distracted workers as he went by, and his split lip and black eye were only noticed when Riley glanced up from the scale in front of her.

“Holy shit!” She shoved away from the table and stood, reaching out for the boy. “The hell happened to you?”

Sam took a step back, hand going to his eye to hide it. “It’s fine; I just…I have to talk to Kyle, I just…”

Frankie waltzed in at that mount, whistling a tune and hefting his motorcycle helmet in his hand; Riley spotted him over Sam’s shoulder and waved him over. “Get over here! Take a look at Sam!”

So he did; he hurried his steps and, brow furrowed in concern, turned Sam towards him. “What the hell?” He pressed his thumb to the edge of Sam’s lip, assessing the damage. “Who did this? Sammy boy, what happened?”

Sam tried to pull away but Frankie wouldn’t let him; even he could have, he would have bumped into Riley. “It’s fine, just, some new assholes in town; the Red Scorpions or something, they’re trying to muscle into everyone’s territory.”

“Damian—he works for Nickie, you know Damian?—he was telling me about them; they’ve been hitting Nickie hard.” Riley spoke as she started moving for Kyle’s office, where the boss was already starting to emerge from, the commotion drawing him.

Frankie looked back at Sam; he had other injuries, bruises and cuts, and Frankie wasn’t happy. “Did they say anything?”

Sam shrugged and let Frankie brush fingers across his injuries. “Just to let Kyle know they’re coming for him next.”

Frankie didn’t like the fact that someone had hurt his friend, and by the cold glint in Kyle’s eyes he didn’t either; Kyle was brought up to speed and he nodded.

“Where’d they jump you?”

Sam gave some street names; Kyle directed Riley to take care of Sam, and then pulled Frankie outside.

“We have a job to do, Frankie.”

He didn’t think much about that; he followed Kyle to the car, sat in the passenger seat, and watched the city fly past as Kyle drove for a few hours. “Where are we going?”

“What have I always told you about the Wolves?”

“We look out for each other.”

“That includes Sam.”

Somehow, Frankie found himself holding a baseball bat while Kyle finished tying several unconscious men to chairs scattered about an abandoned apartment; “what are we gonna do?”

Kyle glanced up from the rope. “Repay them.”

The following hours went by oddly quickly, and Kyle offered for him to get some hits in; Frankie, shakily but eagerly, took his turns.

“What have you learned?” Kyle said, as they drew to an end, washing blood off his hands.

When the injured men say nothing, Kyle bends down to look them in their swollen eyes.

“My people are not to be messed with; if you mess with one, you will bring the whole pack.”

They leave at a leisure pace, walking quietly down the creaky steps; at the curb, Kyle made a call informing someone—Frankie isn’t sure who—that there are injured people at this location.

“Frankie,” Kyle said, side eyeing the kid, sometime later when he was driving him home. “What is the most important thing when running a business like this?”

Frankie tried to take a deep breath, but it was halted by a minor panic of the violence he’d just been privy to, he’d just partaken in; at the time, it had seemed right, somehow, to bring pain to those who would threaten Sam. And now it scared him how easy it was, to break knee caps and punch noses, to hurt and draw blood without hardly a feeling of remorse; now, he saw how vile that was and he wondered if this would always be a process—or if he would become as used to is as Kyle was. “The people.”

“And what’s the boss’s job, as head of something like this?”

He swallowed his fear, his guilt, and his voice came out steadily. “Watching after those people...protecting them…”

Kyle nodded; “Remember that, Frankie; it’s what makes a good leader.”

Frankie had gone home, gathered Sam in his arms, and committed Kyle’s instructions to memory.

\|/

“You kids gonna sleep here tonight?”

Frankie cracks an eye open to glare at Tyron; beneath his arm, Sam shifts. “Fuck off.”

Tyron chuckles, and Riley snaps a picture on her cellphone; Frankie settles down to try and get some more sleep. It’s been a few months since he realized he loves Sam, and he’s prided himself in not acting on his impulses; to ask the 20 year old on a date, to confess, surprise him with a kiss.

But Sam’s too special for Frankie to jeopardize their friendship, so he smiles at Sam and lets him stay at his place and takes Nathan to school as if nothing has changed. In a way, nothing has; they still spend most of their days together, working, or just hanging out. They talk like nothing has changed, they interact like nothing’s new; Frankie can ignore his feelings if it means Sam is safe and happy.

Today was no different; they’d worked side by side packing crates for shipment, and Frankie had helped Sam file some papers later on in the day. Still, the shipment for tomorrow isn’t done yet and Tyron and Riley and Walt are still working hard; Sam had crashed first, and Frankie had laid his jacket over Sam to keep him warm. And then, just a few minutes ago, Frankie crashed too.

Sam shifts again, and Frankie pats his shoulder; Frankie pulls Sam into a more comfortable position, and shuts his eyes ready for sleep. Without a thought, Frankie presses a kiss into Sam’s hair.

He freezes for a moment, unsure, feels Sam tense the slightest bit before relaxing again; he thinks he’ll let it go. Tomorrow, they won’t mention it; they’ll keep going like they’re friends. They’ll get coffee from McDonald’s, pick Nathan up from the orphanage, do grocery shopping…

“You can give me a real kiss if you want.”

Or Sam can sit up and turn to face him, eye him with the most serious expression ever turned on Frankie; “what?” Frankie asks.

“You can give me a real kiss.”

Frankie does; he settles his hands against the side of Sam’s face and pulls him close, their breath mingling between the sudden short space between them. His eyes flicker to Sam’s lips and back up. “Are you sure?”

Sam hums, eyes half lidded. “Very.”

Frankie swoops in then, a gentle touch of skin on skin; the kiss is chaste, simple, kind, warm… It’s tender and gentle, barely beyond lips on lips, and Frankie pulls away slowly; he rests his forehead to Sam’s, breathes, opens his eyes and smiles unsure at his partner.

Sam’s smiling, giddy, with bright eyes. “That took way too long to happen.”

Frankie huffs a quiet laugh; “Yeah…”

Sam initiates the next kiss, ducking forward quick, and this kiss is longer, still tender and warm but somehow more desperate. His arms come around Frankie’s neck, and Frankie runs a hand through Sam’s hair.

They share a few more little moments, tucked away together in the corner of the darkened warehouse.

\|/

Frankie awoke to cotton in his mouth and a heaviness in his limbs; drugs, he thought, definitely drugs. There was a pain in his chest, a sort of dull ache that hinted at a hole in his skin. He groaned, a more wheeze than anything, and his eyes as fuzzy when he could peel them open. The ceiling was a tiled, dull, and the mattress he’s lying on was thin, the sheets stiff and starched.

A hospital, then; he remembered being shot at on the street, under a street light, Sam shaking behind him. Sam! There’s energy coursing through him and he tensed, trying to raise himself into a sitting position. That’s when he recognized another presence in the room, breathing easily, body heat radiating onto his left hand and hip; he turned his head to the side and spotted Sam, sleeping deeply, resting on the bed and gripping his hand tightly.

Frankie heaved a sigh and gripped the hand back. “Sammy boy,” he wheezed.

Sam reacted, to the tightening hold and the voice, jolting awake and blinking at Frankie. “Frankie?”

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam sat up straight. “Frankie, you’re awake! Shit, don’t ever do that again! Do you hear me?” He brushed a hand across his cheeks roughly. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to see if you’d live?”

Frankie smiled, though his brows were furrowed in confusion and guilt. “I’m sorry I scared ya, Sammy boy; but I’d do it all again.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and he shook their joined hands. “I’d rather it be me laying here than you.”

Sam shook his head and Frankie could see his lip start quivering; he knew the younger boy was going to start arguing, and quite frankly he wasn’t up for arguing. So he tugged on their hands.

“Come here, Sam; we can discuss this later.” Another gentle tug. “C’mon, Sammy boy.”

Sam followed his tuggings to curl against his side on the bed, gripping the side of Frankie’s hospital shirt in his hands; Frankie let Sam hold him as tight as he wanted, no matter how much it hurt, because Sam needed that right now so Frankie fitted an arm around Sam and sighed into the stall air around them.

He would do it again, if he had to; and every time after, he would step in between Sam and any threat that would crop up.

\|/

The last time Sam sees Kyle, the boss’s hair is beginning to gray around his temples; he still keeps his hair long, pulled back in a ponytail, the silver of age contrasting his jet black hair. Still, his eyes are as sharp as ever and his hands haven’t lost their strength.

The thing is, Sam doesn’t know it’s the last time he’ll see Kyle; he spots the older man in his office, and ducks in to say goodnight, as casual as any other day. “Hey, I’m headed home.”

Kyle just nods, quietly looking out over the empty and darkened building; they’d moved buildings when the Red Scorpions kept growing larger, more threatening, having scared Anderson out of town, taken control of Anika—crazy, wild Anika, with her explosives and volatile temper. Not to mention the three unknown muggers they’d hired to scare Sam and Frankie years ago, when they’d first arrived in the city and tried to take down the big groups. “Take the day off tomorrow; do something with that brother of yours, spend time with Frankie. Have fun.” He turns a cold gaze on the boy. “Don’t come in, no matter what; I won’t be happy.”

Sam stuffs his hands in his pocket, an unsure smile forming. “But we’ve gotta measure and pack the drugs for Loraine’s shipment next week.”

Kyle looks back out to the rooms beyond his office. “Go on, Sam; you deserve a bit of rest. I can handle the work alone.”

Sam admits later, when all is said and done, that he should have pushed harder; “the others’ll be here to help, right?”

Kyle twists his wrist and squints at his watch; he waves a hand quickly, sighing. “Go on, Sam; it’s late. Frankie’ll be wondering where you are.”

Sam turns to go, hesitant, scratching nervously at the base of his neck. “Oh, uh; ok, then. Thanks, Kyle.”

“And, Sam?”

He turns back.

Kyle looks at him, warmth and pride in his eyes. “You’re a good kid, and you’re gonna go places. Don’t let anyone hold you back.”

For a minute, Sam just breathes; it always floors him when someone compliments him, and he ducks his head. “Thanks, Kyle; I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kyle doesn’t respond; the next day, Riley shows up on their doorstep with tears in her eyes and a DVD clutched in her hand.

“Kyle’s been murdered.”

\|/

Kyle started the recording, settling in his chair and glancing momentarily at the door, ensuring it is locked; beyond the glass, he could see the empty building, the desks so carefully placed, workspaces clean and neat. In the corner is a row of filing cabinets Sam was often found bent over, Frankie hover around in case he was needed; the couch on the other side of the room was where Riley would be on a calm day, draped over the cushions with a beer in her hand, quipping at Tyron like siblings; Walt and Wilson, ever dutiful, would be packing boxes, weighing powder, polishing weapons.

On any normal day, Kyle would find the thought of tomorrow exciting; a moment to see his family, to smile when Tyron playfully shoves Riley and she spills her bear, when Walt groans about his bad back. When Sam smiles and Frankie makes the room foggy with his bad habit.

Tomorrow wouldn’t come though, and Kyle knew this; he turns his gaze down to the camera that blinks at him. “If you’re watching this,” he cleared his throat. “Then it means I’m dead. First…I want to say I’m sorry. To Riley, I’m sorry I won’t be there to walk you down the aisle on your wedding day; I know I promised you I would, but…things change, love. I want you take the five hundred thousand in your bank account and go see your brother. You have time to now.”

She’d mentioned her brother, who had fallen sick with terminal cancer, and Kyle hoped she would take time off; every time he brought it up, she’d say she had work to do. Now, with him gone, she would have time and maybe him bringing it up again would push her to take time to visit her family.

“Walt, for the sake of everyone’s sanity—and of course, your health—please go get the correction surgery for your back; a slipped disk isn’t anything to fuck around with. I know you have the money, I know you have the time; take care of yourself. Find a nice house on a lake somewhere and fish for the rest of your life.”

Footsteps sounded outside, scuffing along the wooden floorboards, and Kyle glanced up; he looked back to the camera. He wasn’t in a hurry, and neither was his visitor.

“Tyron…” he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Grow a pair and ask Riley out already. And Wilson…spend some time with your kids; take them on a vacation, get to know them. Fix your marriage if you can.”

And now it came to the two he had been dreading saying goodbye to; in the larger room, his visitor walked the perimeter, still not in a hurry. Kyle could hear voices further out, voices he didn’t know.

“Frankie…do you remember what I told you was the most important thing to run a business like ours?” Kyle nodded, as if Frankie were in front of him reciting the motto, that the people were important, to protect them with all his might. “I have been training you since you first came to me to take over when I’m gone; I don’t want you to feel pressured into the position. The Black Wolves can fade away, into a distant memory if you want to; you can settle down with Sam in some penthouse in some city and smoke your way to asthma if you want. But I also want you to know that you can do this if you want to; I’ve believed in you from the beginning, Frankie. You’ve got the heart to be a great leader.

“Sam, I’m sorry I have to be added to your list of people who’ve left you. It’s a long list, I know, and I never wanted to be a part of it. I saw something in you, that first day you asked for a job, and I know you can be Frankie’s second hand man. You got the abilities, the brains, and the talent to balance him out. If you’d rather not, if you’d like to go out, go to college, chase the stories your brother loves so much…I’ve left both you and Frankie a million dollars each.

“I could not be more proud of all of you; you each will be receiving a sum of money within the next forty-eight hours. Be yourself, live your life, chase what you want. I am so proud of you, I am so happy to have worked side by side with you for so long, and I will miss you.”

He lent forward, turned the recording off, and popped the DVD out of laptop; he grabbed a permanent marker to write on the circle’s face.

Kyle wouldn’t fight this; at this point, he had fought and run for too long. He had a feeling this day would come and now it was here, staring him in the face from the darkness, and he finished signing the DVD’s front, setting it aside in a case for his partners to find later.

Theo stepped out from the shadows, dressed in a leather jacket emblazoned with a red scorpion across the back, and watched the Black Wolves alpha sit, regally, in his chair. “You know why I’m here.”

Kyle nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Is there anything you’d like to do or say before I do this?”

Kyle watched his steady hands pull out a pistol, screw on a silencer. “My people are not to be harmed.”

Theo nodded understandably. “My people won’t touch them.”

Kyle grinned then, relaxing against the back of the chair. “You won’t last a week.” For all the freedom he’d offered them, he knew they wouldn’t take it; Riley might visit her brother, and Tyron and her would marry one day probably, but Frankie would never leave the Black Wolves, and where Frankie goes, Sam follows.

Theo aimed the pistol, squinting down the sights. “No? I think we will; you’re all that stands between the Red Scorpions and full control of this city.”

Kyle continued to grin, so very confident in his pack. “The Black Wolves are more powerful than you’d think.”

Theo shook his head sadly, sighing, and pulled the trigger.

\|/

Frankie peaks over Sam’s shoulder, a hand going to brush lightly at the small of his back. “Do we have everything?” There’s a tattoo on his upper arm that dances with every move he makes, a black wolf’s face howling against a moon background; it’s a mark of the Black Wolves, a sign of Frankie’s position that he wears and shows proudly; Sam doesn’t have a tattoo, but his position besides Frankie says all.

Nathan tips his head to the side as he observes them, one foot on the bottom of the cart and his arm folded over the handle. “I think we’re missing milk.”

Sam peers into the grocery cart; yup, no milk. “So we need milk, and flour.”

Frankie nods. “Alright, I’ll go grab the milk.”

“We’ll get the flour.” Nathan volunteers, eyeing Sam curiously; Frankie nods, and leaves Sam’s side with a pat to his shoulder.

Sam starts walking away, towards the aisle that will have the flour they need; he’s chewing his lip as he reads over the list in his hands. Nathan walks casually behind him, still watching him with a curious gaze.

“Did you guys finally get together?”

Sam whirls around. “What?”

“You and Frankie?” Nathan smirks. “Did you two finally get together?”

Sam flushes. “Shut up!”

“You did!”

“Nathan, I swear t’god…”

Nathan skips. “You know I’ve been trying to get you two together for, like, three years now, right?”

“Shut up, Nathan.”

“I just think it’s nice, s’all.” Nathan shrugs, and Sam skirts around a family chatting by the chips. “You know, he’s a real nice guy; and he’s your best friend. I think that’s a good way to start a relationship.”

Sam grabs a bag of flour and dumps it in the cart. “We aren’t…it’s not really…” Sam huffs when Nathan raises a brow. “We…kissed…that’s…literally it.”

“Dude, he was holding your hand when we walked in; that’s not it.” Nathan tips his head to the side. “You still sleep in his bed, right?”

Sam flushes again, but nods.

“Ok, and you’ve been sleeping in his bed for, what, five years? Six?”

“Five…” Sam admits. “On and off.”

“Staying at his place, working side by side with him, he took a bullet for you… Yeah, you were friends then, but looking back now—after kissing? I think you guys are pretty official.” Nathan’s smirk grows. “Unless you want to go on a date? Sam, do you want to go on a date with Frankie?”

Sam shakes his head, going red all the way to his ears. “Nathan, stop!”

Frankie shows up at the end of the aisle, behind Sam, and Nathan’s grin grows even more; he waves excitedly.

“Frankie, when are you gonna ask Sam out on a date?”

“Nathan!” Sam squeaks.

Frankie, though, is unaffected, and he settles an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling him in close. “I dunno; Sam, want to go on a date with me?”

“Oh my god…”

Nathan nods. “They remastered Indiana Jones; you guys should go see it in theaters.”

“Yeah, Sammy boy, wanna go see Indiana Jones in theaters?” Frankie nuzzles closer, teasingly, grinning. “Just you and me? On a date.”

Sam buries his face in his hands. “I hate you both so much.”

“No you don’t,” Frankie says, smooching his partner on the cheek.

\|/

Sam was seventeen when the orphanage kicked him out for good; they didn’t kick him to the curb with no way to care for himself, but he never spent one night at the foster home that took him in. A halfway house for troubled boys, half of them sporting juvenile bracelets on their ankles. Sam went to the only place he felt welcome, safe; he stepped up to the door, hesitated only briefly before he rapped loudly on the wood, and fitted his hands in his jacket pockets.

There was movement from inside, the sound of feet scuffling upon the ground, and the slightest rattling of the doorknob.

“Shit,” was heard, and then the lock clicked and the door swung open; Frankie’s freckled face stared at Sam, shivering in the cold autumn air. “What the fuck are you doing out right now? It’s freezing!” He reached out and dragged the boy inside.

“I got kicked out.”

“So late? What the fuck, the nuns are crazy!” Frankie rubbed his arms, trying to warm him, and slipped his backpack off him.

“They didn’t…it…They kicked me out for good, to a halfway home.” Sam shivered and Frankie pulled him in; Sam let him, tucked his head against Frankie’s throat. “I’m not stayin’ there, Frankie; I’m not.” His voice cracked.

Frankie rubbed his back, adjusting his grip. “Course not, Sammy boy; you’re staying here with me, for however long you need. Days, weeks, your life. I don’t care, you’re staying here.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t pay rent, or groceries, or…”

“I don’t care,” Frankie responded firmly; he pulled back and cupped Sam’s cheek. “Dontchu worry about a thing, Sammy boy; I gotchu.”

Sam believed him wholeheartedly.

\|/

The moon is soft, soothing, a gentle companion in the cool night; the windows are thrown open, various sounds drifting in on the breeze. The sound of tires on wet pavement, a cat knocking over a garbage can, echoing voices as late night walkers talk…

On the counter in the kitchen, Frankie’s succulents sit freshly watered; the dishes are clean and put away, the living room in order, their clothes tucked away in drawers. The couch is brand new, just like their apartment. A larger place, in a safer part of town, with walls dividing the place, a room down the hall waiting for when Nathan is finally released into their custody. Bought with the money Kyle left them, two million in total; they live cautiously, but comfortably.

Sam, curled around his pillow and breathing softly, sleeps quietly besides Frankie in their shared bedroom; in the small space between them, Frankie enjoys the quiet sound of his breathing, the way his lashes flicker gently across his skin as he dreams.

“I love you,” Frankie confesses quietly, whispering it out on a solid breath; the blinds billow with the wind, and Frankie slips an arm around Sam’s waist, closing his eyes. He waits for sleep, so very content and complete.

Sam shuffles closer, shifting under the weight of Frankie’s arm, and his breath puffs out across Frankie’s collarbone. “Love ya too.”

**Author's Note:**

> About half way through I stopped editing so Im sorry if it turned out horribly!


End file.
